Beware the Wild Page 8
Wednesday morning I pretend there’s nothing wrong inside my house. I roll out of bed and take the first shower, dodging Lenora May on my way out of the bathroom. Mama has a hot breakfast on the table when I come downstairs. Grits, eggs, and sausage all grease-glossed and gleaming under the kitchen lights. I pile a thin layer of eggs on a piece of toast and eat as much as my anxious stomach will allow before declaring that I’ve got to meet Candy and Abigail for a last-minute cram session. Mama pretends not to notice what’s left on my plate, but Darold clears his throat in a significant way.
At school, I try to keep my mind off how to get this little cherry into Lenora May’s mouth and focus on exams instead. At lunch, I share the news of my upcoming Heath date with Candy and Abigail, who decide this means we need an after-school prep session. I don’t argue and within fifteen minutes of the final bell, we’re in my bedroom with every shirt I own draped around the room. A few are draped over Abigail, who, after plugging her iPod into my player and selecting something that sounds disturbingly like Country/Electronica, immediately climbed into my bed and shut her eyes.
“What’s wrong with you, anyway, Beale?” Candy rips away the shirt covering Abigail’s face and tosses it in the discard pile. Apparently, I won’t be wearing pink. “You’re infecting me with your yawns and I think it has a detrimental effect on my brain. If I got anything lower than an A minus on that history exam, it’s your fault.”
Abigail’s eyelids don’t even flutter, but she lifts a choice finger, elegantly telling Candy how little she cares.
“Have you been studying late? Are you worried about your grades?” I ask. It seems unlikely. We all like good grades, and getting them is a condition of staying on the volleyball team in the fall, but Abigail’s never been one to stress.
“Or,” Candy says, lowering the tank top she was considering with no love in her eyes, “is everything okay at home?”
Her family—even her twin sister, Valerie—hasn’t been the most accepting, but they’ve never been cruel. Unless you consider private weekly meetings with the pastor cruel. They might be. Abigail never wants to share details.
“I’m fine,” she says, kicking the shirts off her legs to sit. “Everything’s fine, I’m not sleeping so well. That one.” She points at a pale yellow top with a faded Darwin fish in the center. Phin gave it to me for my birthday three years ago.
“Jean shorts, black boots, red for the nails.” Candy tosses me a bottle of nail polish, red as the cherry in my pocket. “Boom. That’s teamwork.”
Abigail naps through the rest of the session. The music blares and Candy and I don’t lower our voices a smidge, but Abigail’s fast asleep. She doesn’t even stir when Lenora May stops by with a steaming plate of fresh pastries and settles on the ground next to us like she’s done it a hundred times before.
“Feels like I haven’t baked in ages,” she says, clearly delighted with herself. “But last night, I dreamed of these tarts I had when I was a kid and it was all I could think about today. So, I found a recipe and I baked.”
She kneels so primly with the platter on her hands and her gingham-print skirt pooled around her knees, she should be on the cover of a magazine. People do not naturally look like paintings without trying, but everything about her seems so irritatingly effortless. Even the tarts she baked on a whim are perfectly square with dollops of red at the center. Candy eats two in the time it takes me to convince myself to take one. It’s remarkable how easy it was for her to waltz into my bedroom and get Candy to eat something when I’ve been racking my brain all day for a similar scheme. The bloodred center of the tart gleams, a perfect hiding place for a cherry.
“What did you use for the filling?”
“Some of Mama’s old preserves.” We lock eyes. “Strawberry. Try it.”
It occurs to me this could be a trap. Fisher said she was devious. She could be trying to banish me to the swamp the same way I’m trying—and failing—to banish her. If I hadn’t gone in and met Fisher, I’d be helpless right now.
“Can’t.” I put the tart down on the plate. “I’m allergic to strawberries. I’m surprised you forgot.”
She looks disappointed, but also indifferent when she shrugs. “I’ll try something different next time. Cherries, maybe. Is she okay?” Her eyes lift to Abigail. She’s rolled to her side, giving us a clear view of the dark circles beneath her eyes. “She looks a little ill.”
“She’s not sleeping well,” Candy supplies between bites of steaming tart. “These are supergood, May. If I could bake, or if I’d ever wanted to bake, you’d be my queen.”
I could kiss Candy for giving me the idea.
“I wish I could try them. When do you think you’ll make another batch? Maybe I could help?”
Skepticism locks both of their faces in the same position for different reasons.
“Glad to see you’re taking an interest in food again,” Candy gets in a dig.
I’m not about to have another fight about food. Lenora May considers me for a moment, unsure, but unwilling to break in front of Candy. My smile is relentless. Finally, she yields and suggests, “Tomorrow after school?”
“Perfect,” I say, knowing that was one of the finest pretendings of my life.
I tell Mama that I’m going to Candy’s for another study session. She never complains about studying during finals and gives me a ten p.m. curfew. Darold’s got the swing shift, but he’s surely infected Mama with his anti-Durham campaign. As long as I’m back by ten, they’ll never know the difference.
It’s dusk when Heath texts to say he’s parked down the road where Mama won’t see. The sky’s a dusty blue, the crickets are hard at their work, and the swamp’s full of Shine straining at the fence. A coat of fresh pollen has settled on the Chevelle and there’s a fuzzy peach hanging from the rearview—something Phin would never allow. I ignore it as best I can. I’ve got a plan that will solve all of that tomorrow. Tonight, I’m on a date that’s one year overdue.
We drive with the windows down, the warm breeze kissing our cheeks. There’s nothing like early summer evenings in Sticks when the air’s as warm as bathwater and everything’s vibrant with singing. It’s like the whole world’s happy to be alive. Heath takes us away from town, along the side road until it curves at the river.
“The Lillard House?” I ask.
“I have a surprise for you.”
It becomes full dark when the truck passes beneath the oak trees. The row echoes with the chirping of frogs and beetles. Up in the canopy, Spanish moss floats lazily on the air, the tails of a hundred ghosts. The Lillard House glows with collected moonlight, all cold and pale but for one window that winks golden.
Heath’s acting like the cat that got the cream when he pulls me up the steps. With one gentle tug, he unhinges the lock and gives the front door a shove. It swings inward with a long, slow whine.
“After you,” he says with a half bow.
“What did you do, Heath Durham?”
Inside, the hallway is dim and vast. A set of dusty footprints leads the way.
“It’s as close to a bank heist as I could get,” he explains. “But that lock really did take ten minutes and a smartphone. Who knew lock picking would be harder than stealing a car?”
“I believe this is called ‘breaking and entering,’” I tease.
Two steps into the hallway, the ceiling catapults up, making way for a grand staircase that wraps the walls in two directions. Heath’s old footprints don’t go up either side, but lead straight between them, deeper into the house.
“Would that make it better than or equal to a bank heist in the grand scheme of things? I don’t want us slipping down the criminal chain.”
“Definitely better,” I say.
The footprints move off to the left, through a doorway that’s fancier than anything in my house. The scene inside makes me stop.
“Oh, Heath, it’s beautiful.”
Candles light the room, perched on the long mantel of a fireplace an
d on the ground in glass cups and tin cans. In the center is a red, flannel blanket with tattered edges and one corner shredded to bits. Two bottles of Coke stand at one end and right beside them is a stack of Styrofoam containers. In the air is the telltale scent of something deep fried. A Miss Bonnie’s specialty made more palatable by the dust tickling my nose.
“I hope you like catfish.” He wasn’t nervous before, but now he plucks at the cord on his wrist. This, I discover, is all it takes to make me nervous. I grasp his fingers and pull them away from the only concrete thing tying him to the swamp.
“As long as there’s tartar sauce, I’m good with just about anything.”
We settle onto the blanket and break into the food. My stomach emits a strange, shrill noise and I realize I haven’t eaten anything of substance since breakfast. It’s probably embarrassing how quickly I eat the first piece of fried fish, but when I look up, Heath’s on the edge of a laugh.
“Never thought I’d meet anyone who likes catfish as much as I do.”
“I don’t,” I say, surprised at the grease on my fingers.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I give myself a minute and a swig of Coke to make sure I’m not about to be sick. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve eaten so much in one sitting, and overwhelming my system with fish and grease might create problems. But two minutes later, my stomach shrieks again and I reach for a second piece.
I’m doing it all wrong. Dating is about getting to know the person you’re with and here I am chowing down like a stray dog. As though he’s somehow connected to my thoughts, Heath laughs and reminds me to chew between bites. I throw a hush puppy at him. It thumps against his shoulder and roles away, collecting dust on its cornmeal shell.
“The life and death of a hush puppy.” He shakes his head, mournful. “I’ve got to admit,” Heath proceeds cautiously, “it’s a relief to see you eating. You’ve—uh—well, you’ve gotten pretty thin recently. I was getting worried.”
The candlelight can’t cover the hint of a blush in his cheeks. I work hard not to mirror it, but I can’t ignore that he’s been paying such close attention.
“It’s stupid,” I admit, toying with another hush puppy. “But have you ever gotten so caught up in a fear that it affects what you do every single day?”
“I’ve got an idea what that’s like.”
“I’ve never been able to rely on anyone like I rely on Phin. When we were little, our dad would hit us. Phin always protected me and he’s been the one sure thing in my life ever since. I wasn’t ready for him to go away. The thought of living anywhere without him, well, it scared the shit out of me. It—it was like I was shrinking.”
“I understand. Before Old Lady Clary brought me that charm, I didn’t want to leave the house. Seeing those swamp lights was terrifying. They reminded me of everything I’d lost that night. I wasn’t just afraid of the swamp, I was afraid of living.”
“But it got better?” I reach for his wrist and trace the leather band. “With this?”
“It got easier,” he corrects. “This helped, I guess, but it didn’t get better until two days ago.”
I meet his eyes while the rest of me explodes.
“Sweet Pete, you aren’t one for subtlety, Heath Durham.”
“Says the girl who asked me to steal a car.”
Our laughter travels through the hollow rooms. Through one tall window, I see the swamp, glowing dimly at the bottom of the hill, and remember what brought us here in the first place. It wasn’t some long-lost romance. It was just loss.
“Heath.” I close the Styrofoam box and wipe my fingers on my shorts. “I went into the swamp last night.”
I have the sense that I could set my watch by the fifteen seconds it takes Heath to react. It’s as if when he experiences an emotion, he sifts it through some filter before letting it appear on his face. He does this the same way he does anything, with practiced calm. So when he says, “You are crazy.” I know it’s fairly serious.
“And I saw Nathan,” I continue. “I spoke to him. He’s alive. Trapped, but alive. And I met someone who says he can help.”
There’s no way to keep it short. I tell him everything about last night and my plan for getting the cherry into Lenora May’s mouth. By the end of it, I’m on my feet with excitement.
“It’s going to work. I know it is and as soon as it does, we’ll figure out a way to save Nathan, too. I’m sure Fisher will help us.”
“You really trust him? How do you know he’s not just as bad as she is?”
“I—” I stop. Can I trust anything that comes from the swamp? “I think he feels responsible in some way because she’s his sister, and as horrible as she’s become, he still loves her. So, I trust him enough to try this. What can it hurt?”
“Okay, but a cherry?” He holds the fruit between his thumb and forefinger. After a whole day of riding in my pocket it looks as fresh as when Fisher created it. “Doesn’t that seem a little flimsy to you? How could this possibly work?”
“Maybe it’s flimsy.” I remember my own reluctance and Fisher’s response. “But maybe not. ‘Where things come from matters.’ That’s what he said and it makes sense. We don’t know much at all about how things work in the swamp, but it’s true that the taste of things like honey and wine are affected by the area they come from, so it makes sense that a swamp cherry might have properties associated with whatever this swamp magic is.”
“That makes a sort of sense,” he says. “Not that you need my approval, but this sounds like as good a plan as any. I might actually be feeling hopeful right now.”
The rest of the date passes too quickly. When the food’s gone, we explore every room in the Lillard House, making up stories about the people who might have lived here when it was first built. It should be eerie, sneaking through cobwebbed doorways and into rooms as stuffy as coffins, but our stories keep any dark thoughts I might have at bay.
We’re home by 9:58 p.m. sharp. Conveniently, Darold pulls his cruiser into the driveway at exactly that moment. Even though Heath stopped on the road, there’s no way Darold didn’t see me here, which means my cover’s blown. Darold takes his sweet time shutting the car off and gathering his things. He’s in no hurry to leave us alone out here.
“Piss,” I mutter.
“Not my biggest fan,” says Heath, watching as Darold pops the trunk and rummages around inside. I’d lay down money there’s nothing in there but a spare pair of boots and an umbrella. “Guess I can’t blame him.”
“I guess not,” I say, but part of me does. Part of me blames this whole town for being so willfully blind to something so powerful, Heath’s parents for not believing him, and Old Lady Clary for keeping secrets. It isn’t enough to say something’s dangerous and leave it at that. Fear doesn’t protect anyone. Fear only makes us more vulnerable when we should be finding ways to be strong.
And suddenly, I’m unbuckling and crawling across the seat. I take Heath’s face in my hands. I smell mint on his breath and then I press my lips to his. Five seconds pass before his hands grip my waist, before he exhales and leans into the kiss. Five more pass before I remember to breathe and pull away.
In the dark of the cabin, Heath’s face is in pieces. Moonlight catches on shards of his lips and eyes. I let my fingers stray into the shadow of his hair and am delighted when he shivers.
I say, “If we weren’t already in so much trouble—”
He kisses me and I kiss him with laughter on my lips. This time we’re brief and when we part, he whispers, “You’re worth all the trouble in the world.”
My steps are so light when I slide from the truck and walk into the house. It’s only when the front door clunks shut behind me that I remember to look for Darold’s disapproving face. But he’s not in the living room with Mama and she merely glances at the clock to communicate my five-minute tardiness. Whatever Darold’s reason for not telling Mama, I’ve got no urge to worry about it tonight. Nothing could mar this moment.
I stop in the doorway of her empty room.
The feeling sours.
And now I’m angry all over again, at Lenora May for invading my house and my heart, and at myself for letting her. Guilt is a worm in my gut and even though I know it’s not my fault, nothing can erase the fact that my instinct after sharing a beautiful first kiss with Heath was to tell my older sister.
I want to hate her so purely, but still a part of me resists.
From the bathroom, I hear the shower squeak off and I’m sick over how close I came to giving her a sincere moment. I hurry to my own room and rest my back against the closed door. Then, I find the cherry in my pocket and cradle it in my palm.
Tomorrow. By the end of tomorrow, I’ll never think of her again and all my precious memories and thoughts will be safe again.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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THERE’S A SONG MY GRANDPA Harlan used to sing. Hum, really. In the evenings when he’d sit on the rocker with his pipe burning sweet tobacco, he’d hum the same tune over and over. He said it was a gift song. No words, but full of promises. Someone had given it to him long ago and now he was giving it to us.
Phin and I would create a nest of quilts by his feet searching for shapes in the black pines until one or both of us fell asleep. We did that as often as Mama let us. In my memory, that was every night. I’d fall asleep cuddled up to Phin with sticky summer dew on my skin and Grandpa’s lullaby in my head. Then I’d wake in my own bed with the previous night’s dirt still between my toes.